


Found Again

by Fl0rence_changed



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 14:06:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28636737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fl0rence_changed/pseuds/Fl0rence_changed
Summary: John and Sherlock post RBF/TEH. Sherlock returns and John doesn’t know what to think. Can their relationship survive, or is everything destined to be over without ever having truly begun?
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 1
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

John closed his eyes and exhaled into the cold night air. His chest felt tight and his pulse was elevated. He could feel his blood pounding in his veins and the start of a massive bloody headache but he couldn’t be arsed to care. His life, so tenuous these past couple of years, was just abruptly upended again. By the same man- one Sherlock Holmes. 

Taking in a deep breath, he opened his eyes, squinting in the florescent lighting of the street lamp. He leveled his gaze and found Mary, continued his sight, and then found Sherlock. John held his gaze, completely shell shocked and still hurt and pissed. Sherlock returned his stare, just as heated and, if John looked a little further, was that pain underneath? Well fuck that! Why should John care if Sherlock was hurting? Did he care how much John was hurting, had been for two years now? Obviously not. 

John turned on his heel and went to grab a cab without a backwards glance. He half didn’t believe Sherlock was still here and half expected for him to be gone again if he were to turn around. No, better to just look ahead. Mary would come. They would go home and John would take a shower, drink a cuppa and turn in. It was work as usual tomorrow. Life kept going and it wouldn’t stop for anyone, not even a sociopathic consulting detective back from the dead.


	2. Chapter 2

The cab ride back to the flat was quiet and tense. Mary hadn’t known John for too long but she knew when to push and when to leave him to his thoughts. Better get him to the house first and settled down a bit before trying to help sort through some of this mess. 

The lights were all off, not even the outside light was on. They obviously hadn’t intended to be gone this late. They flat was modest, they could afford more with their combined income, but it suited their needs for now. It was somewhat messy, cluttered with still unpacked boxes in the front hall and room. John has been living in a flat share for a year and a half after Sherlock Holmes had gone. John told her that 221B was still open but.... And he could never finish the sentence. She never really needed him to. And after tonight, she knew anyway. 

It was a quick flame, she supposed. Quick to ignite and quick to burn out. She was drawn to his quiet, serious persona. Of course, she knew that wasn’t all he was. He was Dr. John Watson, former army doctor and Sherlock Holmes’s companion. She had read his blog not too long after they had met. She was part enchanted by the surreal stories he wrote about (how crazy all of that must have been?), and an equal part jealous of the obvious devotion that John had for Sherlock. Has for Sherlock. 

Mary sighed and took off her coat. She hung it on the rack next to John’s coat and followed him into the kitchen. She took in his profile. His shoulders were curled in on himself, making him seem smaller than his 5’8 frame. His head was bent, presumably looking down to fiddle with the electric kettle. All she could see was the line of his neck and his ashy blonde hair. A wan smile flit across her face privately. 

“John.” she said. He squared his shoulders before she could finish. “You have to talk to him.” 

She could see the flush rising up his neck and reaching his ears. He slowly turned to face her, his face impassive except for the flush. His eyes were over bright, like they were fighting to let every emotion spill out but John was, god knows, too stubborn and bull headed to let it out. He opened his mouth to speak and a pained whisper came out. Almost a groan but not as loud. Mary felt her heart clench. She smiled sadly and shook her head. 

Walking forward, she reached behind him and grabbed a couple of mugs. She got the tea bags and popped them in the mugs as the kettle indicated that it was ready. Pouring the boiling water in the mugs, she heard John shuffle around for the sugar and her honey. Quietly the fixed their tea and went to their living room. 

They fixed themselves on opposite ends of the couch facing each other. Mary ticked her feet under her and blew on her tea, watching John over the rim. John tucked one leg under, letting the opposite foot touch the ground and had his gaze fixated on a spot over her shoulder. She grinned. Typical John. His uneasiness practically radiated off of him, but he was so strong and so brave, he couldn’t back down. She cleared her throat and his eyes met hers. 

“John, we haven’t known each other very long but you know I care about you. You aren’t a man of very many words but what you do share is very forthcoming and your actions are even more so.” She leaned in and took his free hand and gave it a squeeze. “Sherlock is everything.” Here John flinched. “He is John. And that’s ok. I don’t think I really got it until tonight. Until I saw you together. Until I heard you yelling at him. You know we don’t fight? You never raise your voice at me.” She smiled a self deprecating grimace at her mug and pulled her hand free. 

Looking down at her hands she said “I want that, you know? That kind of dedication and devotion that you have for each other.” John made a choking noise. “I think it’s beautiful and heartbreaking how you both would go to the ends of the earth for the other but you can’t be arsed to put it into words. A bit stupid if you ask me.” Mary downed her tea and stood up. John’s eyes followed her. “I’m going to take a shower and turn in. You’re my friend John. A good friend and a good man. I think you deserve the world and that you can have it, you know? Everything you’ve wanted. You just have to talk. You know I’m here if you need, but I don’t think you will. I think you’ll go shower and change and take a bag and go visit your friend that’s just gotten back from a very long trip to hell and back. You’ll go and talk to him and make up and come see me in the morning to sort out moving arraignments with the landlady. Goodnight John.” 

And Mary turned her back on him after having the satisfaction of seeing his eyes grow huge in his face and his jaw drop. She let out a quiet hum and walked to the in suite bathroom to shower for bed. She caught sight of her reflection in the mirror over the sink and sighed. John was sweet. He was handsome, strong, smart, steady and compassionate. But she knew when they got together 6 months ago that he was broken. He told her as much. He said that he wasn’t sure what he had left to give. She hadn’t really understood, not even when he tried to tell her about Sherlock or when she read his blog. She didn’t understand until tonight. She still doesn’t think that John really understands either. But that’s for him and Sherlock to figure out. She can’t do everything. 

She smiled at her reflection and started disrobing and starting the hot water. She steam filled quickly, fogging the mirror and obscuring her reflection. She slipped into the shower and rinsed off her body. The warm water felt relaxing and comforting, and she sighed in contentment as she reached for her body wash. She poured a small amount into her hands, lathered up and quickly rubbed the suds over her wet skin. As she felt the water rinse away the soap, she felt as if some of the stress of the evening was washed away and down the drain with it. She shut the water off and grabbed a fluffy towel and dried quickly, feeling goose flesh on her skin and her nipples tightening in the cold air. She hurriedly slipped on her dressing gown and went to the bedroom. 

She found John had already been through. His pillow was removed, as well as his dressing gown from the back of the door. She sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her hairbrush from her night stand. Brushing her hair quickly, she sat it back down and grabbed her book from her pillow, propped herself up and got comfortable under the covers. John walked in and looked at her. 

“I’m going to take a shower, if that’s ok with you...” he stopped when she gave him a look. “Right..” and he scratched the back of his head. “I’ll see you in the morning.” And he went into the bathroom and shut the door. 

“Good luck!” she called after him and smiled.


	3. Chapter 3

John leaned against the back of the bathroom door and exhaled deeply and shut his eyes. His lips were pressed firmly together as his mind drifted and his body went on autopilot. Setting the temperature of the water and peeling of his clothes, John’s eyes met over the sink. He looked at his mustache and grimaced. 

It was a spur of the moment thing. His body moving without command. After years of being in the army and having to be clean shaven at the arse crack of dawn, he’s confident he could shave in the dark, blinded and with his left hand. He thinks back as to why he grew the damn thing in the first place. He was tired, yes. Hurt over being recognized as the late Sherlock Holmes’s friend and always being asked “But you must know, why did he jump? If he wasn’t a fake? Are you sure he wasn’t a fake? Yeah... Ok..” and followed with those looks. The doubt and the pity. 

John took a deep breath, relaxing his hand before he cut himself. He lathered his face, rinsed his blade with the hot water and began to shave. He felt like he was peeling off his shell. Like he was shedding his skin. Becoming John Watson once more. Thinking of Sherlock, of his mad ideas, shouting at the telly, being condescending and bratty, of his enigmatic smiles and of his last phone call on that rooftop, John breathes in life again. 

He steps naked into the shower and lets the hot water travel down his back, over the curve of his buttocks, down and through his leg hair and then down through the drain. The hot water heats his blood, but not nearly as much as the thoughts of Sherlock do. Have always done. 

God, what was he thinking? Did that idiot really think that it would be ok, popping up like that, wearing a disguise no less, like nothing happened? Like those two years weren’t the worst of his life? And yes, John is counting when his parents divorced, his dad a raging alcoholic and his mother beaten down and worn, over his sisters multiple rehab stints, over getting bloody shot in the shoulder, over getting discharged and little more than a “thank you” for all that. 

John had felt like he had nothing else when Mike introduced him to Sherlock. And then Sherlock blew his whole world wide open. And then, just as quickly, he took the sun away. Grimacing at the maudlin turn of his thoughts, John finished rinsing and shut off the water. He dried briskly in the cooling air and pulled on the change of clothes that he had brought in. He shut the light off and walked out, depositing the towel in the hamper in the bedroom. Mary glanced up, took note of his shaving and smiled softly at him. His chest tightened a bit, but it was a genuine smile. He nodded at her and left the room. 

Going to the living room, John grabbed his bag and called a cab from his cell. He had a few minutes before it showed up and he looked around the flat. It didn’t feel like home. It felt less like home that the flat share he found after moving out of 221B. But, then again, nothing felt like home without Sherlock. John knew what Mary was getting at, what she was saying- and what she very much wasn’t saying at all. It had taken him aback, hearing her lay out his thoughts like that. He had always thought he had been more subtle. But then again, the thought wryly, why did everyone else seem to keep implying that we were a couple? John’s heart clenched and he got the message on his cell that the cabbie was here. He took a deep breath, grabbed his bag and walked out the door. Making sure he locked up for the night, he climbed into the back of the cab, gave the address and sped away into the night.


	4. Chapter 4

John sat in the back of the darkened cab with his hands balled into fists, jaw clenched and looking out the window at the passing lights of London. He always liked the city, especially at night. It always seemed to have life and energy, but at night, it seemed to have more. It pulsed with possibility. It had been a long while (two years, his mind helpfully supplies) since he had felt that rush. London without Sherlock was so small. Lifeless and boring. 

John clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white and he looked down at them. He thought about seeing Sherlock tonight. God, he felt like a dick. John had always known he had a temper. It was one of the things that everyone always seemed to comment on. He had always had trouble keeping it in check, even when he was young. He remembered getting into fights in school, ripping his school clothes as he tumbled, giving as good as he got. It usually took something big for him to use his fists, but even back then he had triggers. His sister, Harry, was one that his classmates used frequently. His parents divorce was another. 

Methodically, John loosened up his fingers. Slowly, the skin flushed and feeling returned. Letting out a deep breath, he turned back introspective. Sherlock always has been his biggest trigger. Whether it was the man himself or John trying to protect him from the outside world, nothing seemed to set his blood aflame quicker or hotter. John groaned, letting his head lean back on the headrest and his eyes fall shut. 

In his minds eye, John sees Sherlock. Not as how he has pictured him these past two years, no. Now he sees the man tonight. The nervous smile under that ridiculous drawn on mustache, the shaking hands as he tried to lighten the atmosphere with a joke. God, was he an idiot. Always so quick tempered that he didn’t see. (You see but you do not observe, John) Sherlock was hurt. Not just emotionally, but physically. John could see the strain on his face, how pale his skin was. John could see his weight loss in his cheekbones and his collarbone. The insomnia in the shadows beneath his eyes. And what does he do? Lash out and make it worse. It was the biggest fuck up of his whole life. 

Slowly opening his eyes, John’s gaze is on the roof of the cab. Even so, he can feel the momentum slowing. Looking outside, he can see Baker Street, the once everyday familiar sights now somewhat alien after two years of absence. Releasing a shaky breath, John grabs his bag and gets out his wallet. The cab pulls up to the curb and John, on seemingly autopilot, hands over the exact change and stumbles out into the brisk night air. Drawing in a deep breath, he looks up at the windows. Curtains are drawn but a dim glow is peeling around the edges. He should be home then. 

Gripping the nylon straps of his duffle a little tighter in his left hand, he walks up the sidewalk into the door stoop of 221B. John looks it over, the familiar color, the tarnished golden numbers and letter that always made him feel whole and warm and comforted no matter what happened. He allows himself a bit of a breakdown- WHY did he think it was ok to bring a bag? How presumptuous was he, thinking that now, after everything, after how he acted tonight, that John would be welcomed here. His face pales and before he can talk himself out of it, John inserts his key into the door and opens it. 

221B’s door creaks open, like it always does. John’s breath catches in his throat for a minute, but after looking around the foyer, there is no movement. Looking up the darkened staircase, his chest constricts. Squaring his shoulders, John takes another deep breath and walks in, shutting the door behind him. It is absolutely silent inside the building. 221A is black, no noise of life can be heard, but upstairs is a different story. Sure it is quiet, but John can see the dim light from under the doorframe leading to the living room, like someone lit a fire in the grate. Listening carefully, John cannot hear any shuffling, no squeaking of floorboards, no sign of anything. 

A brief smile lights his face as he realizes the telltale sign of Sherlock on alert. Of course he knows someone is here. His great brain is probably whirling with possible deductions as to who it is. Briskly walking across the foyer, he starts climbing the 17 steps to his old home. Gripping the doorknob, he lets out a shaky sigh and opens.


	5. Chapter 5

The sight that met him was one he was used to. It seemed like out of a dream. Sherlock was standing there, facing the grate, back to the door. His fists were closed, his left hand clasping over his right wrist. His narrow shoulders were broad and defined in the firelight. John let out a shaky breath and noticed that Sherlock didn’t move. Taking a closer look, Sherlock seemed strained. His hands were leeched of color and he didn’t seem to be breathing. While John was looking, Sherlock’s shoulders dropped a bit. John jumped a bit when he heard Sherlock’s rumbling baritone start. “I didn’t expect you to show up here tonight. What of your companion?” 

Sherlock turned on heel slowly. John took in his profile. Sherlock barely faced John, wouldn’t make eye contact. Well, thought John, this never was going to be easy. 

“Mary is at her flat. She knows I am here. She knows that we need to talk.” That earned a sharp look from Sherlock. “That I need to talk to you.” John amended. Sherlock finally turned completely to face John. His face was in shadows and made him look older. “Can I make some tea and we talk?”

Sherlock shrugged, motioned to the kitchen. Looking around, not much had changed from the last time John was there. The table was still cluttered and the science equipment was on the counters. Taking a closer look, the kitchen was free from dust, carefully cleaned. John’s throat tightened again; Mrs. Hudson, obviously, was working hard at keeping the flat tidy. Suppressing a shudder, he went through the motions of fixing tea. Two sugars, no cream for Sherlock. He brought the tea back into the living room and paused. 

Sherlock was standing in front of the fireplace still, but angled towards the flame rather than away. His dark shadows under his eyes were so deep, they were almost bruises. His cheekbones were so much sharper than before. And that ridiculous drawn on mustache was nothing more than a smudge above his upper lip, like a swipe of dirt that hadn’t been completely removed. Sherlock’s eyes turned towards John and he gestured towards their chairs. He handed over a cup carefully to Sherlock, taking care to give him some space, but his fingers briefly grazed John’s and it was all he could think about. He took his seat in his squashy chair, drew the cup to his nose and inhaled a deep breath. John knew he shouldn’t be drinking so much tea so late at night, that the caffeine was not conducive to sleep, but he couldn’t help it. The warmth calmed him, so he took a sip, and then another. Putting the cup down on the floor, he looked up at Sherlock. Sherlock had sat in his leather chair, right on the edge, grasping his tea with both large hands, and hadn’t moved. He was looking into the tea as to use it for fortune telling, or some other such nonsense. There was a little furrow between his dark eyebrows and his lips pulled down. John took a deep breath and Sherlock glanced up. Their eyes connected and John started talking.

“I don’t even know where to begin. I think that we’ve always been able to communicate without words so well, that when the time comes for us to actually speak, it’s almost impossible. This isn’t something as frivolous as a case, however.” John paused there. He almost expected Sherlock to object, but he was meeting John’s gaze squarely. Sherlock’s pale eyes were clear, a small furrow between his brows. He blinked and kept going. “Before, if I ever thought about this moment- you coming back to me and how this conversation would go, it was very one sided. I never asked many questions because I didn’t think that the answers would be justified. That was childish and wrong and I am sorry.” At that, Sherlock grunted and looked to interfere. John gave a firm shake of his head and continued. 

“Sherlock, I know you better than anyone. Better than any of my former troop mates, better than my sister, better than myself. You’ve always been impulsive, quick to decisions. But you wouldn’t have done something so drastic on a whim. I would like to think that your life, your job, and everything you had here meant more to you than that.” John cut off with a grimace, carefully not saying what he meant to say. Damn! This is getting more difficult than he had anticipated. Meeting Sherlock’s gaze again, he steeled himself. What they had was worth fighting for. He could do this. He WOULD do this. “I know that I am more important than that to you.” Sherlock’s eyes widened and John felt his face soften and he let out a shaky laugh. 

“This doesn’t mean that I am not mad anymore. I apologize for the scene I made at the restaurant. I was surprised, scared and angry, but I still shouldn’t have shouted at you like that.” Sherlock opened his mouth but John kept going. “I am not sure if I can articulate how much these past couple of years have changed me. I’m not at all sure if that matters to me right now, seeing you here and knowing that you’re here.” He drew in a shaky breath and exhaled with a small smile. Sherlock made a small noise of frustration. John met his eyes again, surprised. Sherlock let out a small sigh, just a gust of air out his nose. Shaking his head briefly, his curls bouncing, Sherlock met John’s eyes again, and they were shining. John felt his eyes grow round as he noticed Sherlock’s lips were trembling. Leaning forward slowly, giving him plenty of warning, John reached out. Sliding to the edge of his chair, John grasped Sherlock’s bony knee. Just a small point of contact, the first in as many months. John felt Sherlock’s leg jump at the contact, but he kept his grip firm, but not restraining. If Sherlock truly objected, he could easily maneuver out from his reach. 

John watched as Sherlock closed his eyes and exhaled a long breath. His shoulders dropped. John realized how tightly wound he had been. Sherlock slowly leaned back all the way, relaxing into the chair and letting his knees unbend. John was crowded into the V of his legs. He couldn’t wrap his head around his current situation. Not even some hours ago, he believed Sherlock gone, never to be seen again. His fingers trembled and flexed, as if to keep him from disappearing again. Suppressing a tremor, he relaxed his grip. He took another breath in, inhaling the scent of woodsmoke from the fireplace. There was an underlying dank and musty smell that never seemed to fully dissipate from the flat. The scent of tea lingered. John felt his chest tighten.  
It smelled like home. 

John looked up at Sherlock’s upturned face, the point of his nose casting shadows across his face. His gaze traveled down the long line of his pale throat, over his Adam’s apple, down his narrow chest covered by his usual attire of a button up shirt. Sherlock’s long and slender legs framed by fitted black slacks were loose and languid, warm under John’s palm. He gave his leg a gentle squeeze. “What’s going on Sherlock? I know I’ve never seen you like this before.” Sherlock snorted and let out another sigh. His eyes opened and his head raised up to meet his gaze. John’s throat tightened at what he saw there, the pain and sorrow in Sherlocks eyes. His squeezed Sherlock’s leg tighter, and this time, didn’t let go. 

“I am unsure as to how to start. The time that I was gone.. I always felt it a gross exaggeration when others used to talk about time moving both fast and slow at the same time. Yet that’s how it seems to me at this point. I remember the day I left acutely, the conversations and actions that led up to that moment on top of the hospital.” Sherlock’s throat worked to swallow as he continued. “That last phone call before..” Here, his eyes closed in a slow blink. John felt his familiar twinge in his leg and grabbed Sherlock’s other leg with his left hand. Sherlock’s eyes found him again and he continued. 

“Most of what happened, the trials that I underwent, I have no desire to talk about tonight. I might not ever want to tell you what happened. Less because my lack of ability to communicate something as distressing and intricate as what happened, but more from my desire to keep you from knowing. I used to spend hours and hours imagining seeing your face again, wishing I knew what to tell you. Even now, I find myself at a loss. I would do it again, just for you. Only to keep you safe.”

The words hung in the air. John could hear a thundering in his ears that he was late to realize it was his heart. Sherlock was still lying in repose, appearing at all ends to be relaxed. A second look showed a flush creeping up his pale throat, and a rapid beat thrumming in his jugular. John grasped both thighs and squeezed. A gasp escaped between Sherlock’s opened lips and his breathing sped up. John felt his palms become slick and he licked his lips. Sherlock’s eyes darted down to his mouth and back up. In one swift motion, Sherlock was sitting up. John was overwhelmed, all of his senses filled with Sherlock. The smell of his cologne was spicy and prominent in the hollow of his throat. John could see the shadow of his stubble, almost taste his scent heavy in the air. John looked up into Sherlock’s face, his eyes large in his narrow face. Sherlock looked down and met John’s gaze. His lips quirked up into a small, half smile that warmed his eyes. 

“I cannot tell you how much I missed you while I was away. Thinking of home is the only thing that made the whole ordeal tolerable.” John’s hands trembled as he slowly slid them up to the top of Sherlock’s thighs. His thumbs rubbed in small circles, enjoying the firm feel of his warm flesh underneath the smooth fabric of his slacks. “John, we have so much to talk about. There is much to be said. I don’t regret what I did. But I do wish that it hadn’t hurt you. I had been able to almost convince myself that you would be ok. I told myself that you have always been a solider, in more than the obvious way.” A bittersweet smile crossed his face, eyes dimmed a little bit. “I must admit, I am a little surprised at how well it worked. The woman you were with today, Mary, no doubt a good match. Intelligent, she knew who I was almost immediately. Smile lines on her face indicate humor that I am sure you appreciate. And most of your matches have light colored eyes, which indicate a preference.” Sherlock eased backwards a bit. John’s eyes grew round again, and he dug into Sherlock’s thighs. 

“Wait! Sherlock, please.” John pleaded. He leaned forward to close the gap that Sherlock created. “Mary is a good woman. She had been kind to me when I know it hasn’t been easy. After you left, I wasn’t myself for the longest time. It took time, therapy. Work helped. So did Mary, for a while. She didn’t push or ask for more than I was willing to give. Even so, she knew. She saw everything, even things that I hadn’t admitted in words to myself. You see, Sherlock. But you always miss something critical.” John drew his hands up Sherlock’s arms and grasped his shoulders. Sherlock’s eyes were large and round, his pupils large. John was so close, all he had to do was turn his face and sneak a taste. Drawing in an unsteady breath. “I am not leaving you. I never have, and if you’ll have me as a housemate again, I never will.” 

John saw Sherlock’s eyes dart away, searching. He saw the dawning of apprehension when Sherlock spotted his bag on the floor. “Sister, not brother,” he muttered. And he dipped his head and turned and oh! He felt the lightest pressure on his lips and inhaled a shocked gasp. A cold brush of air was followed by a warm, wet flick of a tongue. John’s gasp turned into a low moan as he eagerly opened his lips to deepen the kiss. God, he had imagined this kiss for years. He thought about what it would be to kiss Sherlock so many times, and yet, this moment left his brain scattered as his body took over. John twinned his fingers into Sherlock’s midnight curls. Gently pulling, just enough to get the right angle pulled a rumble from Sherlock’s chest and a pleased hum. John let out a giggle, and before he knew it, he and Sherlock were holding each other and laughing. John had pressed his face into Sherlock’s neck and breathed, smiling. 

“This definitely isn’t how I had imagined tonight going.” John huffed, still catching his breath. “Not that I mind! God Sherlock-“ here he struggled to continue as Sherlock hummed into his ear and a darting tongue licked his lobe. “Christ, you have to stop. I want you too much, NEED you too much, to fuck this all up now.” He pulled back and looked into Sherlock’s eyes. He had never noticed how long his eye lashes were, how the top lashed brushed his cheeks when he blinked. Sherlock’s cheeks were flushed a warm pink and John couldn’t help himself. He stretched up into the small gap and stole another kiss from those parted lips. Smiling into it, he broke away and enjoyed the slightly dazed look left on his face. “Talking, yes? More tea?”

Before he could talk himself out of his, he stood up and briskly made his retreat to the kitchen to put the kettle on. He could feel Sherlock’s eyes on him as he moved. Looking over his shoulder, meeting the warm gaze, he smiled. Yes, it had been a hard road. The time apart had been anything but easy, but what they had together was worth it. John knew that they would put in the work and come out the other side closer than ever. The first time in what felt like forever, he felt a huge weight lift off his shoulders. John hummed, finished completing the task at hand. Turning back towards the living room, his companion already with a waiting hand outstretched. John felt ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And done! Feedback appreciated. Until next time!
> 
> -Fl0rence


End file.
